I wasn’t raised with expectations. Neither my mother nor my father taught me that I was entitled to anything; every opportunity was to be seized, every advantage taken. And I have worked hard. Very, very hard.

“You’re angry,” Dad says now, breaking the silence that has stretched far too long.

I shrug and glance at him. His narrow face is weathered and deeply lined. He’s not a young man. I don’t know how resilient he really is. He says one thing but I can no longer trust that his words reflect reality. It would be easy to remain angry, but it’s not me. It never has been. I prefer moving forward. Not much of a fan of treading water or remaining in place.

“What was Mom’s secret for dealing with you?” I ask huskily, managing a faint wry smile.

“She liked me. And she knew my limitations.”

“I like you, and I’ve a good idea about your limitations. You enjoy your routine, you have no patience for idiots, and you don’t like small talk or cocktail party chatter.”

“I’m short on patience and have a quick temper.”

“Except when it comes to animals.”

He lifted a trembling hand. “They don’t talk.”

“And they can’t help themselves when hurt or injured.”

His head, with its steely strands of gray, nods. “Your mother never minded that I preferred animals to people.”

Clearly I’m nothing like my mother, because I do.

• • •

Leaving the retirement home, I go grocery shopping before driving back to the house on Poppy Lane.

The cream-colored house looks lavender and yellow in the twilight. Once upon a time the picket fence was bordered by cheerful perennials. The flowers are gone, replaced by some shrubby-looking hedge. I wonder who replaced the flowers. Probably the same gardener that mows twice a month.

There’s a big oak tree in the backyard and it’s home to a variety of birds. In the morning you hear the jays and mockingbirds. Now crows caw. I pause with the bags of groceries to watch a large black bird swoop from the gnarled tree limbs to a power line, joining the lineup. They screech a welcoming. Or perhaps a warning. The newcomer flaps his wings. He doesn’t care.

As I juggle the bags and unlock the front door I glance back at the car. The car and street are bathed in gold. The temperature is still warm. You can smell summer coming.

From the time I was a teenager, my parents talked about their retirement plans.